I weep, I despair. This season ever upon me. This chill, dull winter a thing which shall never end. Have summers come to pass? I see them not. Caught. Always. Pearls in a net, tears in a veil, sparkling. Cool to the touch. How surreal, that this should ever melt into days of breeze, sun on legs, green on the ground, dust in the air. It lies still, dead, waiting. This unbearable cold. Halting all life, all growth, all changes. My lungs fill with shades of open grey and blue, oxygen transformed to liquid light through a window, like filtered vision.
These hours pass as minutes, the slow moving hands of a clock a prison I can never escape. I would push my fingers through this fabric to feel the threads cling as I rip through, touches against the skin long numbed to mercy, pleading for a chance to remain whole. Cobwebs ar